by Rachel Hauck
“I hear you studied at Knoxton?” Malcolm said.
“Graduate courses. My twin brother was a part of the Joint International Coalition headed by Brighton’s Royal Air Command. When he came to train, I came along to keep him company. He and Stephen—Prince Stephen—were friends.”
Malcolm headed toward the door as voices resounded beyond the living room doors. Corina stood when Nathaniel and Susanna entered first, arm-in-arm, looking very regal. He in a dark, very fine tuxedo. She in a deep-red evening gown.
“How do we look?” Susanna spun around.
“Now I’m underdressed,” Corina said. “You look fabulous. Susanna, is that a Melinda House gown?”
“Very good.”
Corina motioned to her own dress. “Saw this in their shop window in the fashion district yesterday. Could not resist.”
“She is really a genius. Melinda made Princess Regina of Hessenberg an icon overnight by just adapting her north Florida, cowboy-boots style.”
“I’ve not followed her, but I’ll have to do so.” The news of Princess Regina, a Florida girl, discovering she was the long-lost heir to the Grand Duchy of Hessenberg’s royal house came just as Corina determined to come out from under the fog.
“You should. She’s wonderful.” Susanna linked her arm with Corina’s and leaned close. “She’s one of us.”
Corina laughed, warmed by the princess’s camaraderie. “Then I’ll read up on her right away.”
“I’m sure I can arrange an introduction.”
“Ahem, and what of me?” The king cleared his throat, pretending to straighten his tie.
“Most handsome, Your Majesty,” Corina said.
Susanna walked over to her husband. “Babe, you look as handsome as ever.”
The Queen Mum and her husband entered next, dressed in a black off-the-shoulder gown and a tuxedo.
“I think we should do this every now and then,” the queen said, taking an appetizer from the tray Malcolm had begun circling around the room. “Either that or my husband needs to take me out to the symphony more often.”
“Love, say the word . . .”
Corina had only observed the former prime minister for a few moments, but he was ardently in love with his wife. How lovely to find heart-palpitating romance a second time around.
Upon that thought, Stephen entered, resplendent in his black tuxedo, his white shirt giving a kind of light to the lean planes of his face. His strength and presence consumed the atmosphere. And he knocked the breath right out of Corina. She felt weak-kneed with love butterflies flitting through her belly.
He’d tamed his dark, thick hair, styling back the sides but leaving a saucy coil of bangs drooping over his high, smooth forehead.
Steady. Loving well doesn’t mean falling back in love.
But had she ever fallen out of love? Corina set down her cup and saucer on the nearest table, hands trembling, looking over at Stephen to see if he was watching her, but instead seeing him moving toward her, filling the air with a clean, woodsy scent.
“You clean up rather nice,” she said with a long inhale.
“Dinner is served.” Malcolm opened the dining room doors.
Nathaniel offered his arm to Susanna. “Might as well go all out, then,” he said, winking at his wife.
The queen took Henry’s arm, leaving Stephen and Corina to follow.
He offered his arm, held her chair, then sat next to her.
As the salad was served, the conversation was of the Brighton summer, the art festival, and the theatre openings.
Of course, of rugby and the junior tournament going on at Cathedral City Stadium.
Then of the event of the summer, the premier of King Stephen I.
“The movie is being compared to Braveheart,” Henry said.
“I’m looking forward to it.” Corina sipped her water.
“Corina, Stephen said you’re doing an interview with Clive Boston.” The queen seemed delighted.
“That’s the plan. I texted him yesterday and we’re to meet at the premier, then get together the following day. But Clive is known to change his mind.”
“Tell him Queen Campbell is looking forward to reading your piece.”
Corina accepted the queen’s warmth and friendship. “Thank you. That should give me some proper ammunition.”
A footman cleared their salad plates and refilled the water goblets.
“Stephen,” Susanna said, “you know if you don’t show up at the premier with a date, Madeline and Hyacinth are going to have a field day with you.”
“Let them do their worst.”
“Corina,” the queen said, reaching for her water, poised and elegant, “are you attending the premier with anyone?”
“Well, no—”
“Stephen,” Campbell lowered her voice and leaned toward her son, eyeing the footman entering across the room with their main course, fried chicken and mashed potatoes. “Take your wife to the premier.”
“Mum, I thought you’d be my date.” Stephen flicked his hand at Corina. “She came to work.”
“Won’t it cause a stir if we show up together?” Corina said.
“Yes, thank you.” Stephen huffed, popping his hand on the table. “She’s right.”
“In your own words, Stephen, let them do their worst.” Campbell turned to the king. “Nathaniel, what do you think?”
“Mum, it doesn’t matter what he thinks.” Stephen pushed away from the table. “Corina and I are in the middle of an annulment.” He glanced her way but kept his eyes above her head. “If I attend a premier with her on my arm, we will be a media spectacle. Every paper and blogger will have their say. We don’t need anyone mucking up our past.”
Corina’s appetite faded as Stephen’s tirade heated up.
“They could find out we were married.”
“You are married,” Nathaniel said, and Corina felt as if she were in the middle of a family fight. A family to which she did not belong. She wanted to escape to the comfort of the Manor.
“But all she has to do is sign the papers and then we are not. If word gets out we are married, the annulment will become a big hairy deal. What’s the use in that? Nathaniel, you above all know what’s at stake here—”
“See, there you go. Hinting of something more. Just what is at stake here, Stephen?” Corina tucked her folded napkin beside her plate and pushed away from the table.
“Corina, I don’t think Stephen is implying any hidden motives.” Campbell also rose from her chair.
“I disagree. Begging your pardon. But he’s not telling me something. And until he does, his wagon is hitched to mine. I’d love to go to the premier with you. What time shall I expect you to pick me up?” Push. Shove. She’d get the truth from him one way or the other.
“Corina, Mum’s right. There’s nothing more going on.”
“You said to your brother, ‘You above all know what’s at stake here.’ I demand to know what that means.” Her voice speared the room with tension, toppling the once peaceful dinner. Corina regretted her outburst, but there was nothing to do about it now. She blamed Stephen. He did this to her. Confused her. Made her crazy. Rewired her heart. Trembling, she turned to the princess. “I’m sorry. I’ve been rude. My mother would be humiliated. Susanna, thank you for dinner.” She placed her napkin under her plate and turned for the door.
“Corina,” Susanna said. “You don’t have to go.”
“Oh, but I do.” Before she either freaked out, or . . . or . . . or crumbled into a weeping ball. She struggled, embarrassed, searching for the exit.
But the entry door was shut, blending into the carved walls. Corina whirled around until she spied a doorknob, and skirted toward it.
“Corina, wait.” Stephen came after her, his hand grabbing her arm.
She broke away, charged into the living room, retrieved her clutch, and started for the foyer. “Stephen, I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have come here tonight. You and I, we’re like a ticking bomb. I don’
t get you. You don’t get me. Shoot, I don’t get me half the time.” The love well message confused her, tripped her up. Why did God send a word but not understanding? She felt foolish and weak.
“Do you think we should go out in public together?”
“No.” She sighed. “I don’t know.” She fumbled with the clasp of her clutch. “Don’t you ever get tired of hiding? Living in the dark?”
He didn’t answer, but the twist in his expression told her yes.
“You don’t have to take me to the premier.” She started for the door, hot, frustrated, not even thinking that her first and last night with Brighton’s royal family ended in a fight. She was more Georgia redneck than southern belle at the moment.
“Corina—” Stephen blocked her passage with a swift sidestep.
“Not bad for a man with his foot in a boot.”
“It’s not my first go.” He loosened his tie. “Let me drive you home.”
“I’ll take a cab.”
He laughed. “There’s not a cab stand outside the palace.”
“Then I’ll walk to one.”
“You don’t have to be so stubborn.”
“Neither do you.”
“Fair enough. What game are you playing?”
“Game? Please. I don’t need to play games.”
“Then why are you here?”
“For the premier.”
“And?”
“The interview.”
“I’m not buying it. Just like you don’t buy there’s not anything ‘more at stake.’ ”
She stopped. “So there is something more.” Her gaze landed on his, and the air between them was palatable. His cologne fragranced every part of her.
He started to answer, then withdrew his words and changed his expression. “No, no, there’s nothing more.”
“Then there’s nothing more to why I’m here. Just a routine assignment from Gigi.” To say she believed she had a divine call to try for their marriage seemed overwhelming to her. How would it sound to him? “And, the trip gave me an advantage to urge you along in finding out about Carlos.”
“Then I have a condition of my own.”
“Signing the annulment isn’t enough?”
“Why not attend the premier with me? Like you said. Come a bit out of the shadows. Shock the world.”
“What? Stephen, that’s the exact opposite of wanting me to sign the annulment.” She shook her head. “Besides, you told Madeline and Hyacinth I was not your date. Do you really want them digging into us?”
“What will they find? Nothing. No news stories, not even a photograph. The marriage certificate is in Nathaniel’s safe hands. Other than the old and new archbishops and Thomas, who knows? Let’s pull one on Madeline and Hyacinth. It should be good fun.” His smile urged her yes further to the surface.
“I don’t want my parents finding out in the press.”
“They won’t. Promise.” Stephen tipped his head toward the dining hall. “The chef made fried chicken for you tonight. His recipe is one of the best.”
Corina glanced toward the dining hall. “No, I can’t.” She was too embarrassed. “Give them my apologies again. I’ll send flowers tomorrow.”
“Let me get the chauffeur to drive you home. I’ll ride along, check out this mysterious Manor.”
Corina exhaled, giving him a weak smile. “We never saw any of this coming, did we? That night we took the ferry to Hessenberg.”
“I know I didn’t see a lot of things coming.”
“You know what I regret the most?” She walked through the foyer toward the front door. “You never gave us a chance. Never trusted our love.”
These blips of honesty surprised her, freed her. She could see the impact had a reverse effect on Stephen.
The expression on his beautiful face hardened, and the tenderness in his gaze faded.
“Come,” he said, ducking past her and hobbling down the portico steps. “I’ll ring for the chauffeur.”
SIXTEEN
Monday morning Stephen knelt on the edge of the pitch, removed his walking boot, and tied on his left trainer, the tip of his surgery scar peeking above his sock.
“Can I say again I’m not for this?” Darren, his physiotherapist, stood next to him, arms folded.
“You’re free to leave, if you wish.” Stephen stretched his legs, his ankles, going gingerly on his left one, then set his gaze down the length of the field.
“What? And be responsible for Brighton’s prince and star winger permanently injured? My career will be toast.”
“Then help me and stop protesting.” Stephen bounced lightly, testing his ankle strength.
“Let me protest one more time. Your ankle is still weak. You’ve no side-to-side strength.”
“Today’s test is not about sidestepping a defender, just a light walk up and down the field.”
“You can test it in the physio room.”
“But I want to be out here.” Because he needed to be in touch with some part of himself. Before the injury. Before the annulment papers. Before Corina arrived. Before her brutal honesty last night.
“You never gave us a chance. Never trusted our love.”
He inched ever closer to blurting out the whole truth. Forget national and royal security. If she knew, she’d say more than “You never gave us a chance.” She’d be the one walking away and never looking back.
Stephen had played out the scenario from all sides so many times it didn’t matter what anyone said. If he told Corina her brother died saving his life, she’d despise him.
She was right. He didn’t trust in their newlywed love. Not over her love for her brother.
“I just need to know my ankle is healing.” Stephen started down the field, the fragrance of the earth rising with each step.
“We’ve X-rays, MRI’s, and your physio sessions to tell us how you’re healing. It’s not as fast as we’d like. Remember, you’ve sprained this ankle four times.”
How could he forget? Stephen had a vivid memory of each one. The first during a crucial university test. The second in the blast. Shot him out the back of the mess tent with Bird Mitchell landing on him as a human shield, protecting him from shrapnel and debris. His leg and ankle were wrenched sideways, trapped under their weight.
The third was his first year with the Eagles. During the Premiership when he found himself on the bottom of a ruck.
Then he took care with his ankle, training faithfully, taping up before each test, watching his steps on the field.
Then last March he went down again. Freakish, really. He’d played the move over in his mind, watched team film, and nothing looked or felt out of the ordinary.
Stephen made his way down the field, trying not to wince. Darren walked alongside. “If you’re not careful, you’ll set yourself back.”
“But if I don’t challenge myself, I’ll miss the fall season.”
Corina spoke right about one thing last evening. Stephen was tired of being careful. With his life. With his heart.
“You’re limping,” Darren said.
“Of course. I’ve been in the boot so long I don’t remember how to walk straight.”
“Straight I’m not worried about. It’s that you can’t put down your weight.” Darren’s entire aura prepped for a hearty “I told you so.”
Stephen pressed on, walking the hundred meters to the try line, then back again.
“Steady on,” Darren said when Stephen turned round to walk it again, picking up his pace, adjusting his gait and his weight, putting more and more pressure on his healing foot.
He was feeling good. In his right state of mind.
“I might forgo the walking boot for tonight’s premier. Wear a real shoe.”
“Then I’m taping your ankle before we leave the training room.”
Stephen laughed and attempted a soft side step, popping Darren on the arm. The physio shook his head, grinning. “You’re overestimating yourself, Stephen.”
“Ha-ha. I�
�m merely revving up.” The wind cruised over the field as the edge of sunlight peeked over the top of the stadium. Stephen broke into a small jog.
“Stephen, please—” Darren ran round in front of him. “If you want to stretch your mobility, let’s go to the physio room.”
“One minute.” Stephen visualized each step, placing his foot squarely on the ground, breathing steady, willing away twinges and pain.
He added a bit of speed, landing solid on each foot, right, left, right . . . His left ankle gave way, dropping Stephen to the ground. He rolled with pain, moaning from his core.
“How bad is the pain?” Darren anchored his shoulder under Stephen’s and hoisted him up so he balanced on his good foot. “Let’s get to the physio room.”
“Don’t say it.”
“That I told you?”
“There, you said it anyway.” So the sum of Stephen’s fears was realized. He was not healing quickly enough, and at thirty-one, injury could sound the death toll for an athlete. If he didn’t heal soon, his career would be overrun by a younger, more agile and athletic, healthy Number 14. And he’d be left with his haunting nightmares and a secret annulment.
“Off we go to an ice bath and a tight wrap. And let this be the last of such training sessions.”
He was losing. On all sides. His career, his health, his purpose. Even his so-called marriage. If Stephen gave any consideration to the divine, such as an all-knowing, all-seeing God, he might bow a knee and ask for guidance.
But he’d seen God’s answer to pleas for mercy that evening in Torkham, when his mates lay moaning in their own pool of blood. Then each one, to the man, died.
He didn’t understand that God. Where was the God of love and goodness? And if he truly existed, how could Stephen expect that God give him any more than he had?
His very life and breath.
In the warm ambient lights of her room, ribbons of twilight floating past her window, Corina readied for the premier, wearing a second gown she’d purchased in the fashion district from the Melinda House shop.
The Versace from home remained in the wardrobe. She was starting over. Starting new.
